


Invitation

by epkitty



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dream Sex, First Time, Genderbending, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 01:43:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected confession leads to a first for Arthur and Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invitation

The invitation was Saito's idea. The months had stretched out between them like distance, measuring a sure success, and now celebration was in order. And although it was Saito's idea, he let Ariadne choose the destination, like a 19th century lord indulging a favorite cousin on her coming out.

They met in Edinburgh, because there happened to be a significant number of them that ought not to spend too much time stateside. And Scotland had seemed, to her, quaint.

They arrived separately, each in his or her own time and way.

Cobb did not come, of course. He barely let his children out of sight, and never let anyone talk about the world they all lived in now. Arthur still called, and he had made a brief visit, but Cobb only wanted to talk about _this_ world, and Arthur couldn't blame him.

Ariadne stepped out of BAA with a rolling suitcase and a leather backpack. Her smile went before her as she stepped into the summer air. She gave the cabbie a hundred pounds and told him to drive through Old Town and take his time.

Saito's private jet delivered him to his private limousine, which conveyed him to a manor out by Juniper Green, which he'd purchased especially for the occasion.

Yusuf stepped off a bus into the bustle of town, the heat like a comforting blanket as he disappeared into the masses, his large knapsack riding high on his back.

Arthur's flight was delayed, and so he stepped bleary-eyed off the plane and felt the familiar zombie-zone of jet-lag settling around his mind like a fog, but summer air stimulated him as he waited at the taxi queue, watching the planes come in.

No one could have been able to say where exactly Eames had come from. For all they knew, he'd been there all along, pub-hopping and having a grand old time.

= = = = =

The Last Drop was a famous pub, a place with true history, and they claimed a table for their own, a strange troupe of players celebrating a thing they had done, a thing that should not have been possible. Through the unique smoke and mirrors of the dreaming vocabulary, they spoke openly about things even an avid eavesdropper could never interpret. And Ariadne had to tell them about the worlds she'd created, the things she'd discovered. But shop talk only lasted so long before Yusuf was regaling them with a story about Eames that none of the others were quite sure was true.

Arthur was soon made to tell them about his visit to Dom and the children and how the family was, and if it was hard for him to talk about something Dom had that Arthur didn't, it didn't show. And if it was obvious that he missed the man desperately, no one let on.

As the night wore on, they lost Arthur on his way to collect another round of drinks at the bar, where he struck up conversation with a flirty New Zealand tourist. He'd had just enough to loosen up, enough to share his smiles without thought, to lean their heads together as though in some conspiracy.

But at her invitation to make their party a private one, he refused, and down dropped that wall of Arthur-inscrutability. He made his brief excuses, and did not look at any of them when he stumbled out into the street.

Eames stood without thought to go after him, but a hand on his elbow stopped him. Saito said, "A man's problems are his own."

"He's drunk," Eames said. "I at least have to make sure he doesn't end up in a pretty cobblestone ditch for the night." He smiled and flashed a wink at them all before departing.

It took longer than he expected to catch up to Arthur, who had set out at a determined pace up Grassmarket, threading his way through the tourists toward his chosen hotel, climbing uphill.

"Fancied a walk, then?" he asked as he trotted up to Arthur's side.

Arthur faltered a moment, glancing at his companion. "Nice night for it," Arthur offered succinctly.

"Which hotel are you at, by the way?" Eames asked.

Arthur shrugged and slowed his power-walk pace. "I've a room at the Grassmarket Hotel."

"Not too far, then," Eames observed. "Let me walk you to your door."

Arthur looked over, expecting - and finding - the coy smile hidden at the edge of a plump mouth. "Such a gentleman," Arthur said, rolling his eyes.

So they walked, past the bakeries and bars, past the buzzing tourist shops with their cheese and sweaters, closing for the night.

It was a tourist hotel, but in that part of town, what hotel wasn't? They entered the white-fronted building and Eames followed Arthur around the check-in desk, into the elevator, down the corridor, into the small room. Plain white walls, blue quilt on the double bed, tiny bathroom in the corner. Arthur went through the checks of any career criminal, inspecting the room for uninvited occupants before bolting the door, ensuring everything was where he'd left it.

They took turns in the bathroom before Arthur turned on the ticking air conditioner and sat himself on the blue bedspread while Eames fetched two glasses of water to chase away the dryness in their mouths after a night's drinking. Eames sat on the faded green armchair and Arthur - zoned out and tired - let Eames look all he liked, not knowing what a man like Eames might see.

And Eames looked, looked in a way most people didn't know how. He saw the familiar military-square shoulders, which half an hour before had been loose with alcohol and desire, and now tightened themselves with the sort of tension Eames associated with bad decisions on complicated jobs. He saw capable hands, callused and sure. He'd seen those hands kill, create, destroy. They were steady hands, good hands, and never a wasted movement did he find there. But now those hands cradled a glass of water, fingers tracing the glass's rim, the condensation, tipping the glass idly until water almost spilled before righting it again. He saw familiar features, often stern, sometimes animated, now dull and listless; the expression Arthur wore could have been mistaken for fatigue, but Eames recognized it as loss.

"So…" he ventured, "that girl at the bar. She was cute, yeah?"

"Cute," Arthur echoed, "yeah."

Eames stared a moment, taking in the cold eyes, the frown setting up residence along Arthur's creased brow. Eames said, "I don't imagine I'm the one you want to talk to… If Dom were here--"

Arthur broke in, "But Dom isn't here. And... he never asked."

Eames took the hint, the offer. "I'm asking."

Arthur tilted his head abruptly, as though looking for a place in his mind to start. "Since I was thirteen, I thought the military would be a good fit for me. It turned out they thought so, too." Arthur set aside his water and ran a nervous hand over his head, dislodging a few strands of hair. "At first, I only saw the same things they did with the dreamshare: a chance-- a _place_ to train without consequences. But, they were still… researching. And until that research was complete, there would be consequences. So they had to experiment." Arthur's eyes flashed wide, looking into a place Eames could not - and had no desire to - see. "They were very fond of their experiments," Arthur went on, murmuring, so that Eames had to lean forward in his seat, the better to hear him when Arthur's deep tone turned dark, bitter, self-mocking. "They left us dead. Or mad. Or just broken."

Well, Arthur was neither dead nor mad, and so Eames made himself ask it, though it only came out in a whisper, "How did they break you?"

Arthur took up his water again, wetting his mouth with a tiny sip before going on. "I was in their third test group. Within eighteen months of the start of that third round of trials, they'd perfected everything they'd hoped to. But not before leaving me impotent. It wasn't the only reason I left the Corps; it was just the most personal. After that, I gave myself three years. Three years of tests and doctors and drugs and therapists and psychoanalysis." He shook his head. "Nothing fixed it, and nothing ever will."

Silence filled the room like rising water as thoughts churned between them.

"But," Eames finally asked, "the… drive is still present, yes?"

Arthur laughed, "Oh yes. If it wasn't… it would be easier." He closed his eyes and pointed at his head with two fingers, as though aiming a gun. "It's all in here. And here is where it stays."

"Well, in that case, what about the dreamstate?"

Arthur opened his eyes, his gaze frank. "Can I get it up?" He muttered, "Funny you should ask…" Then louder, "Yeah. I can."

Rubbing his chin and lower lip thoughtfully, Eames waited for him to elaborate.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the ceiling as recollection took its place in his vision. "Must have been… five years ago? On a job. During the planning stages, building the world of the dream. It was an experiment, but safe," he laughed, "as safe as you can be when you're sharing dreams with fellow criminals… And there was this woman--"

"A projection?"

"She approached me," Arthur went on, as though he hadn't heard the interruption. "We flirted over drinks, she touched my thigh. That's when I realized… Physicality in the dream wasn't hampered by chemical abnormalities in my--"

"I hate to interrupt the story of such a shocking revelation, I really do, but I can't help but notice those events sound particularly familiar."

"It was the first job we worked together."

"You punched me when I shifted back."

"I didn't know there was such a thing," Arthur said, smiling. "Such a thing as forging. Ha. You deserved it."

"Just about broke my nose," Eames said, trying to sound offended.

"In a dream."

"I barely touched you."

Arthur had to laugh. "It was enough." He sobered quickly. "Enough to show me… that I could still… have that. If I wanted to. Even if it was only in a dream."

"So…"

"So what?"

"Well, what did you do with this newfound discovery?"

Arthur met curious eyes. "Nothing."

"What do you mean?"

"What do _you_ mean? What was I gonna do? Hook up with some girl at a bar and slip her some roofies before patching her in, hoping she wouldn't notice the rift in reality? Or maybe I should have resorted to mental masturbation, see if I could find any appealing projections of my own? Dish out the funds for a somnocin whore? No, no I'm not that fucked up. Or desperate."

Eames didn't let Arthur's harsh words deter him. "But what about with someone you know. From the business. Casual sex isn't exactly unheard of among our ilk. In fact, some people--"

"Eames. I've never met anyone I trusted enough for that."

"Do you trust me?"

For a moment, Arthur looked sweetly dismayed.

"Ah, I flatter myself," Eames went on, smiling once he was on a roll. "But I am a very _good_ forger, you know, a very _detailed_ forger, and the female form is truly a marvelous place to dwell in, for a number of reasons…" He said this last with a note of husky suggestion in his voice.

"I could never ask a… someone…" Arthur stuttered and couldn't go on.

"Ask what? A friend? Ask a friend for a casual night of mind-blowing orgasms?"

Arthur's smile broke out along with a surprised snort. "That much faith in your own abilities?"

"Do you doubt me?"

No, Arthur can't possibly doubt him.

Eames leaned in again, searching to meet that hesitant brown gaze with his own, friendly and unflinching. "Aside from the fact that you certainly _could_ ask a friend for such a thing, the fact is you didn't. I offered."

Arthur took a breath as though to speak, but it came out in a broken whoosh of air as his serious expression turned contemplative. "You'd do that?"

The 'for me' went unspoken.

Eames heard it anyway. "I would, and enjoy it immensely." He'd already seen the sleek silver case, slid neatly between the bed and the dresser. He stood to fetch it, opening it with Arthur's 'secret' passcode and checking the fluid levels, the lines, the pack of sealed needles. "So," he asked casually, "what would you like?" As Eames timed out the dosage of a suitable mix and attached two new needles, he looked more honestly relaxed than Arthur could recently recall seeing him.

"What do you mean?"

"Are you being deliberately dense?" Eames asked when Arthur joined him to check his work on the PASIV.

Arthur frowned. The set-up was perfect, of course. But he didn't know what to say. He turned to meet Eames' eyes, finding the man unexpectedly close. "It's been a while."

That subdued them both and leeched the suggestive smile from Eames, who straightened up and asked in a more professional tone as he shifted the chair closer to the bed, "What are you looking for in a partner?"

Arthur drew a blank. "Female?" he suggested before sitting again on the mattress.

Eames snorted unselfconsciously. "Obviously. But what do you _like_? Tall, shy, dark, sweet, mature, exotic, chic, buxom," at this, he helpfully molded his hands in front of his own chest to suggest a generous bosom. And he would, no doubt, have gone on with his list, but Arthur interrupted with, "Too many choices."

"How about that young Kiwi from the bar?"

"No. No one I know. Just… just anyone."

Eames narrowed his eyes. "You're being most unhelpful." He huffed out a sigh and thought a moment.

It went like this:

"Age?"

"Um… same as me, I guess."

"Height?"

"My height, maybe. A little shorter."

"Hair?"

"Red."

"Eyes?"

"Green."

"Face?"

"Cute. Pretty."

"Manner? --This… is the most important one; it ought to be something you're comfortable with."

Arthur seemed to have trouble expressing what he wanted, if he knew what he wanted. "Friendly? Fun… laid-back. Just… out to have a good time, carefree, you know?"

"I've just the thing," Eames told him with a promising smile.

= = = = =

Arthur sits at a bar and glances into the mirror across from him. He's not in a city; beyond the reflection of the wide window, he sees only a lonely field at dusk in winter, his vision obscured by fluffy white snowflakes laying themselves down to sleep. Around him he notices a few families, couples, and groups of friends about the place, not enough to fill the long, midwest-looking restaurant, just enough to keep it from feeling empty.

It's no place he remembers, but he's instantly comfortable.

The food smells good, so Arthur picks up the menu on the bar-top, and sips his beer. Just as he's forgetting why he's there, the tinkle of a bell chimes, accompanied by a gust of cold air.

Arthur glances above his menu and into the mirror.

The girl is young, mid-20s maybe, with red hair in dreadlocks spilling out from a snow-capped green headscarf. She shuts the door behind her with a shiver, hitching the rucksack higher on her shoulder as she surveys the place. She catches Arthur's gaze in the mirror and smiles. She approaches and tucks the rucksack on an empty stool as she slides onto the one beside Arthur. "Mind the company?" she asks, turning a brilliant white smile on him.

"Not at all," Arthur assures her, holding out his hand. "I'm Arthur."

"Esmee," she says, gripping his hand firmly in her own, and Arthur glances at the mirror and for just a moment, Eames' grin is reflected back at him, but only for a moment.

"You looked lonely over here by yourself," she tells him, shrugging off an Army surplus coat, revealing bangled wrists and layers of hipster shirts and sweaters.

He shrugs. "Business trip," he explains, having found himself - unconsciously and unsurprisingly - in one of his immaculate suits.

"Ah."

"And you?"

"Oh, I'm on an adventure," she tells him, and for the first time he notices her perfectly unplaceable American accent.

"An adventure, really?"

"When I graduated art school, I promised myself I would travel for a year. Just hitchhike across the country. See everything."

"Sounds dangerous."

"Oh, it isn't. People are really good at heart."

"How do you get by?"

"My meager savings, my paintings… but mostly on the kindness of strangers."

"In that case, let me buy you dinner."

They smile and it's just that easy, that comfortable. They eat burgers and fries, and drink bad beer. They talk about nothing very important at all, and Arthur professes his concern when - after the meal - she says it's time to find a ride heading westwards. He says, "I've got a room just around the corner."

She says, with a flirty smile, "are you propositioning me?"

"Do you want me to?"

She laughs and calls him a real charmer and says she's been waiting for him to ask since she sat down, which decides the matter, as if it was at all real and unknown.

They bundle up against the cold - Arthur finding a wool peacoat hanging on the back of his stool - and they trudge through the wet snow and down the street to Arthur's motel room, where they undress at first just to get out of their cold, wet things, slush-crusted shoes clumped together by the door in a puddle, coats slung over an uneven chair, and Esmee's rucksack tucked into a corner next to a brown suitcase.

Then they disrobe more slowly, between kisses light and teasing.

Each layer that comes off her is like another skin, a selkie stepping out of wet jeans and pealing off a green bra, revealing pale skin and freckles and an appendectomy scar from childhood. Arthur goes down on his knees to kiss it, which makes her laugh as though tickled, and he gently pulls down a pair of pink panties with the word PEACE screen-printed on the rear. He kisses her auburn curls and sinks his nose in deeply, smelling the dark wetness of her.

Then he stands and doesn't care where his clothes land as her strong, delicate hands touch and tease and her smiling lips kiss him anywhere that looks appealing.

And it is so very easy to kiss her, so joyous to smile at her, so heavenly to cup her small breasts in his hands, so lovely to hear her hearty laughter. It's so easy to be with her, he hardly notices his own arousal, which doesn't even make sense he thinks and then she takes him in hand and makes some flattering joke as they fondle and caress.

She backs him onto the bed, but first he pulls down the covers, because they realize at the same time how cold it is, even with the cheap heater ticking on and off. So they shiver under the sheets a moment, wrapping themselves together in a nest of human warmth, his cock trapped between their bellies until she giggles and pulls away, disappearing under the covers, damp dreadlocks trailing across his skin like fire as she introduces her tongue to the equation, dancing up and down his length in kitten-licks and butterfly kisses until Arthur has to put voice to his desires, even if it's only, "Please…"

And so her lips close around him and her hand grasps him firmly and she torments him just long enough to make him delirious.

"E-Esmee… god!"

She releases him with an audible 'pop' and slides her whole body along his as she settles on top of him, grinning. "Aren't you precious," she teases, nibbling at his lower lip as he drags his own hand between them to ease two cool fingers between her warm folds.

She sighs into his mouth and shifts to straddle him, her sex opening to him, his thumb circling, his fingers delving. She squirms and laughs and tells him she's wet, she's so wet.

He tickles her side and they laugh as he rolls her over and he ducks down under the sheets. He spreads her legs and she is imperfectly perfect everywhere. He touches her with his lips, caresses her with his tongue, and she shrieks and laughs and tells him don't stop and then tells him stop, and then he's inside her, her sweet warmth, her clenching heat, and he's inside her green eyes, wide and lustful, and he forgets it's a dream because it feels so real when she screams out and clenches around him and he comes inside of her, thrusting madly and it's been more than ten years since he's had this, any of this…

And after, when he cries briefly into her shoulder, she holds him, and after, when he thanks her, she laughs, and after, when they sleep, he remembers it's a dream.

Time passes, unknowable.

When he wakes, he's still in the dream, and she's coming out from the shower, towel-clad and glowing in the moonlight reflecting off the snow into their little room.

Arthur sits up, finding himself sleepy but wakeful and pulls on his trousers as he joins her to look out on the blanket of snow. She smiles at him in the moonlight and kissing her is like kissing the moon.

She finds a radio at the bedside, and tunes it to a station that fuzzes in and out, playing some slow tune at this indefinable hour of the night. They sway in one another's arms, her head resting on his bare shoulder, his hands helping to hold up the damp towel as they circle, naked feet padding the plush olive rug.

"Do you ever do anything that isn't like this?" he asks.

"Like what?"

"Magic," he whispers and she shakes her head at him, laughing as she drops the towel and crawls back onto the rumpled sheets.

"Come here," she says, crooking a finger and parting her legs with shameless want. He lays down on his stomach, hooking his arms up under her legs as he kisses her scar again, her navel, the insides of white thighs. He kisses and kisses until his tongue delves into her, warm and pulsing. He licks and sucks until she squirms away, laughing across the bed. He crawls after her, grinning, lets her push him down to the bed, lets her straddle him, lets her sink down onto him, taking him into her, lets her ride him.

His hands on her thighs feel the muscles working. She pants and pushes at his chest, shaping his muscles in her curious hands. His hands slide up, cup her ass, help to lift her as she rises. She brushes a trembling hand across his brow and closes her eyes, concentrating on the movement of sex; as old as it is, it's new every time.

And Arthur takes her hands in his own, their fingers fold into one another and he squeezes until her eyes open to look at him again. There are no words now, and the laughter has sunk away to make room for harsh gasps, for surprised grunts, for delicious moans and erotic whines like need.

Her ups and downs grow shaky and jolting. She trembles as she rises, and each time she sinks, she does so with harder force and fiercer desire.

His face reddens as his breath quakes. Her body shudders as her eyes roll back. He winces and she squeals and they come.

= = = = =

"Oh, my god," Arthur told the ceiling when his dark eyes shuttered open. He turned to find Eames smiling at him, massaging a kink from his neck. " _ **Please**_ tell me we're doing that again."

**Author's Note:**

> This is intended to be a series, because I would love to take this story further. You know, to the actual slash part. But I haven't written anything for it recently. Hm...


End file.
